


the thin white duke

by tnevmucric



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 06:53:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric
Summary: a hollow child who described life with an air of romance and an agonised intensity while feeling nothing at all





	the thin white duke

The scene is set somewhere in central Detroit.

The years that existed in the 1990s have been called undefinable. This superficial characterisation of a whole decade exuded random ties to everything and nothing: the coming of Generation X, the hype of Quinten Tarantino movies and an odd obsession with tattoos and ugly jeans. Plaid was everywhere. The 90s were anything but pivotal, but more a complete clash of every possible personality the world could hold, all at once, leading to a mass existential crisis on the precipice of the year 2000.

Nothing just encapsulates the 1990s - except perhaps this moment.

The month is in winter with an odd lack of rain. Not a drop since last Christmas. Trees line the street in sparse couples and the sidewalk is dotted with old spots of grape gum, STD-infested tissues and garbage. The smoke-fueled air is similar to getting a bullet into your lung and each road hosts to cancer conspirators.

Down the road, on the corner of Gibson and Seldon street, is Café Matisse. Matisse was just a French artist, known for both his use of colour and his fluid and original draughtsmanship and the café is nothing special. Spacious but small, it is a home to few yet a comfort for many. Specifically, 14 year-old Hank Anderson.

One window lights the whole of Matisse. It is a crooked thing, with shabby curtains and stained glass, but it does its job. Every morning (6:30 to 8) he sits there with a small hot chocolate and a tired gaze; people, cars and bikes fly past like they can change the direction of the Earth's axis. The drink gets cold but he finishes it all, pays the nice owner with whatever pocket money he has left, and leaves as he came in with the same disruption of a ghost: soundlessly.

Today is the last day of 1999. Some are in stress, panicking over Y2K while others are already drunk in the sun's glow and are fumbling onto roads with their friends, looking for the nearest club that'll open and serve early. He stands for a moment, watching the organised chaos with a ball of mucus brimming in his throat. He eventually spits it out by the streetlight. While he doesn't exactly deny his habitual nature, there is a man across the street who wears it shamelessly.

The _stress acceleration hypothesis_ proposes that in children exposed to early trauma, the brain’s threat systems develop at an accelerated pace and at the expense of other developing brain systems. A study examined brain activity during a fear learning task between children who had spent part of their early years in traumatic events and compared them to children who had never experienced such. In response to a fear-evoking stimulus, both groups showed increased activity in the brain structure which was well-known to respond to dangers. Although, the children with traumatic pasts reacted in a way that would aid regulation of emotion, something too similar to a typical adult pattern rather than a developing child's.

Hank grew up too fast.

Every day for the past four and a half weeks, the man has stood right across from where Hank is now: six feet tall and unmissable. Granted, it was supposed to be the end of the world soon. He had his own agenda. Perhaps he was the apocalypse bringer. Perhaps he was a ghost.

If a building falls in the middle of a crowded city, does it make a sound? The answer is no. And there are different ways you can explain the phenomenon including ' _it depends on your definition of sound_ ' and ' _it depends on your definition of hearing_ ', ' _philosophically no_ ' and so on. Many of these explanations use spurious logic. The real reason why the answer is no can captivate forests full of people.

Nothing makes a sound, whether you are there to witness it or not. Sound is just an illusion. Sound doesn't take place in the real world, when various things can happen to create an apparent noise. The concept of sound really just takes place entirely within your brain. Outside, in the real world, everything is completely silent: a wasteland ready to ruin itself over and over again.

When physical objects interact in the real world, they can create waves of energy that we are taught are sound waves - but what if they weren't sound waves? Maybe these are actually just compressions in the atmosphere around the objects. This energy carries information on a silent wave which, if it reaches our ears, will cause our ear drum to vibrate, which causes tiny bones suspended in fluid in the inner ear to move, which triggers nerve endings in the cochlear system to fire, sending electrical pulses to our brain where we experience sound. Maybe it's so quiet in the world that we imagine the unattainable so we can bear the insanity. The man doesn't make a sound, but Hank often does.

_God_ , Hank thinks. _Hey, God_.

He's got Dehumanizer on repeat blurring through one ear but can he even really hear it? Why was the word ' _you_ ' or ' _you're_ ' repeated so many times if it didn't have some prolific meaning? There's a bet that good old Ozzy didn't even know why.

The man across the road tilts his head towards the sky, and Hank does the same.

Will we all die soon? Hank thinks, the cotton clouds spreading thinly over the sun. Will it be like in the movies: _crash, bang and smoke?_ How can I stop myself from dismantling, crumbling, into a heap on the ground before the end of days cuts me short? The question is, of course, asked within the realms of philosophy so he is lead to ensure that his ideas, beliefs and what he represents and imply do not fade as he is now fading. He is to ensure that all of this is recorded someplace - to ensure that all of this is made aware to the multitude.

_That will ensure my immortality_ , Hank thinks quietly. The man across the street may have just had the same thought.

"Hello", the man says, holding out a hand. "It is nice to meet you."

The man's shoes are all too clean, Hank thinks as he shakes his hand. Maybe he's a businessman.

"Henry", Hank introduces, "I like to be called Hank, though."

"Nice to meet you, Hank", he repeats. "How is your day going?"

An unnerving level sets in the street.

" 'S fine", Hank replies, scratching his neck. "Yours?"

The man nods, setting his hands by his sides. "It hasn't gone unpleasantly."

"But it's the end of the world."

"Oh", the man looks at the sky again, "I was under the impression we were all anticipating a new year to come by."

"For however long we last, I guess."

"Is this... in referral to 'Y2K'?"

Hank nods his head. "Yeah. They say that the computers are going to blow up or take over or something- at least that's what I heard at school."

"Do you want that to happen?"

Hank shrugs. "I don't know. Do you?"

The man tilts his head. "I believe I'd think of my last words, just in case. In this decade alone, many occurrences have threatened to unbalance so many lives; perhaps it is natural to believe the world would implode."

Hank rubs his nose on his sleeve and takes a step back from the man, hugging his arms around his own frame and sniffing. "I mean, I guess so. What's your last words gonna be?"

"Well-",the man takes a breath and for a moment, Hank realises just how stationery the stranger has been. He takes a breath as if it was his first. "Last words generally must meet a standard of three points. The words must be collective for everything that has happened in the period of time spent alive, the current state of mind and the personal belief of future after death."

" _So?_ ", Hank questions. "What are the words?"

The man purses his lips. "You arrive at this café every morning, am I correct? The owner knows you well."

"Not _every_ morning", Hank retorts, kicking his feet against the pavement. "Just shitty ones."

"May I ask what defines a 'shitty' one?"

" _No_ ",Hank snaps. "You may not. And why are you even talking to a kid? My dad's a cop, y'know. I could get you _arrested_. They break the _bones_ of people like you in jail."

Hank can't read him well, but he's sure something like amusement tinges the man's face- but it's gone as soon as it surfaced. It's only remnant is the small quirk of the man's left eyebrow.

"I apologise", the man states. "May I then ask you a personal question, Hank?"

At a small television store, someone cracks a window: a group of teenagers. Hank watches them giggle and run. His pulse slows, his skin gets cold, and he takes a breath.

"If I was gonna die", he thinks out loud, "I'd probably take a stab at the whole 'God forgive me' thing. I haven't thought about it a lot. I've got other stuff to think about."

"I believe there is a saying that fits your situation; April showers bring May flowers."

Hank snorts, "It hasn't rained in-"

The rain begins like a small torrent. Blinking, Hank asks:

"Did you do that?"

The man actually smiles.

"I suppose it would be a fair assumption to say you enjoy music, yes?", the man stands straight and gestures down the road with a quick nod of his head. "There is a large memorial down the road for a musician. Would you like to go see it? Standing in the rain would not be beneficial to your health."

"Did you bring a Quija board?", Hank asks, leaving a meter space between the two of them as they walked, "because that was fucking morbid. I know the guy, though, his name was River Phoenix. He was an actor, too: died in 1993. Maybe he knows what it's like- if there's life beyond the grave."

The man squinted a little but his features remained expressionless. "I did not bring a Quija board."

"God rest his soul, then."

The curb of the road holds a river of rain, flowing down and passing drains that either don't work, or are filled with trash. The memorial is placed at the front of a bar, which is both black and brick. Someone nearby charges out of a grocery store with a full trolley of shopping and woman throws her shoes in the air, screaming in delight. High off her mind.

"Hyacinth, I believe", the man bends down to what looks like a small shrine by the front door of the club and touches a dead petal. " _Eichhornia crassipes_ , depicting sorrow."

Hank rubbed his nose again, stealing whatever shade the small roof of the club offered as the rain intensified. "He must've liked purple."

"A notable figure", the man decides and procures a pen from his suit jacket. "Would you like to leave him a message?"

Hank shrugs and kneels down beside him. The candles wax poetic onto the concrete and taint messages left by those who loved him. "What are you going to write?"

" 'Condolences'", the man scrawls it onto the corner of a bouquet before handing the pen over. "Here you go."

Hank stares at him with furrowed brows.

"That's shitty of you. He was a real guy with a good life and you rip something from a _sympathy_ card? Dude."

The man tilts his head. "What would you suggest to be a better message?"

An empty candle holder slowly overflows with rain water. Hank is reminded of the way his mother lights candles: a quick strike, bruising into frail wood and seamless wick. The moment replays in Hank's head over and over again and his lips flatline: the world is on mute. The water has rushed from the candle holder like an escape. Like a meaning to something greater.

" 'Your death was like a waterfall'", the man reads. "What does it mean?"

Hank shakes his head and clamps the pen shut, handing it back over and tucking his hands under his armpits. "He said in an interview once that his death would be like a waterfall. It just seemed right."

It feels like a capricious and brutal moment. Like the severed familiarity of a song that is both sustained and overflowing with tragedy. Disappointment wells beneath the grim path out of 1999 and Hank can only think of what he has to do next week; clean his room and make his bed, then scrounge up some money to do the laundry and hang his clothes out to dry. He has scripts he needs to read and roles he must fulfill.

"He died outside The Viper Room", the man states, staring at the bar's sign. "Not this bar, but one in Hollywood. There is a sense of irony to that."

Does the rain even make a sound as it hits the ground? Hank thinks as he looks into his reflection; a pathetic puddle on the ground and the remnants of a waterfall. Do people even speak or do they say what we want to hear? The man gently informs him that his _body temperature is below an optimal range_ , whatever the fuck that means. He just wants to run away to somewhere quiet. He wants to forget about going home.

It is 1:51 AM on January 1st 2000 when the man says goodbye. Hank hopes he doesn't forget how the man hugged him (strangely, stating "Sorry, I am not good at intimacy. I have only done this once before.") but he's too focused on trying to not let the rain soak his clothes before he gets home to even _think_ about anything else except his own harsh breathing. And he can lie if he cries. And he can lie if his parents are awake. 

It is 1:53 when his shoes soak the floorboards.


End file.
